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Yesterday
I hitched another ride to the airport in my
self-appointed role of baggage handler and general
dog's body. Two journalists from the Army/Air Force
Times have been here writing a story about the unit
with which I've been staying, and they were
catching a flight from here to Al Udeid.
I'd
kept a low profile while they were here since I'm
not part of this unit. But I enjoyed talking to
them in the car. They'd been embedded during the
operation in Falujah before they came to us.
They've been in Iraq for months. We checked them in
and then, since they had a few hours to kill, took
them with us to the 1st Cav's part of Camp Victory,
where a small collection of tents forms what passes
for a bazaar.
In
one corner tent a man and his sons were selling
Iraqi coins. The old ones are silver, but even so,
the Iraqi dinar has never known such a good
exchange rate with the dollar. The coins bear the
likeness of Saddam, so they are priced a lot higher
than their face value. I bought a couple and was
thinking of getting more when I noticed an Army
sergeant examining Iraqi bank notes. She was asking
how much they cost when I whispered in her ear that
they were counterfeit. "Really?" she said. I showed
her how the paper on which they were printed was
nothing more than normal printer paper, instead of
the heavy fabric like our dollar bills are printed
on. I held one to the light and showed where
Saddam's picture should have appeared in a
watermark. She ended up with a much better price on
them, but my ability to bargain in that tent was
pretty much shot.
In
different tent another man and his sons were
selling porcelain and silver bearing the symbols of
the Iraqi Baath party. They also had some large
posters of "Uncle Saddam" waving a large cigar and
offering a benevolent smile. I always thought a
Saddam poster would be the ideal souvenir from this
place but I couldn't bring myself to buy one. It's
too disturbing to me to see this man portrayed as
the loving father figure, when, in a palace not far
from us, he imprisoned kidnapped girls, holding
them for the amusement of himself and his friends.
Some were killed after being used. Some were just
kicked out. They had to find their own way home,
facing the possibility when they got there, of
being murdered by their families for having the
effrontery to have been raped.
In
another tent a man was painting. Troops bring him
photographs and in a couple days they return to
pick up the portraits he paints from them. I was
very interested in this, not only because I like to
watch others paint, but also because the graphic
depiction of living creatures is forbidden as a
form of idolatry under Islam. I asked the painter
about it and he shrugged his shoulders. He didn't
have a problem with it. Just a couple miles away
people were building car bombs and setting timers
on rocket launchers, killing to impose on the world
a version of Islam that would never allow what this
man was doing in Camp Victory. I couldn't ask a for
better illustration of what's going on
here.
Other
tents held electronic equipment, local clothing,
and perfume, things that seemed of interest to my
fellow GIs but not to me. I waited for my friend
and our journalist charges outside, in a pool of
sunshine by our land cruiser. We dropped the
reporters off at the passenger terminal and took a
different route back. On the way I spied an Abrams
tank in a field beside the road. The crew members
were standing atop it, catching the slanting late
afternoon light. They seemed more than human in
that light, on that massive piece of equipment;
closer to Agamemnon than to me. We stopped the car
and I took their picture.
Further
down the road we passed a series of Saddam's
hardened aircraft shelters, the enormous modern-day
ziggurats that held the pride of the Iraqi Air
Force. Today each of them sports a hole or two
(pierced by precision-guided bombs) and a pile of
rubble on the roof that doesn't come close to
indicating the carnage that was on the inside. We
are used to seeing these large, brooding
structures. We hardly notice them now. When we
turned a corner though, one could not be missed.
Someone (probably a West Point grad) had painted
the side that faced the road with 10-foot tall
letters that said, "BEAT NAVY!"
Yesterday
I helped edit a number of award citations for some
of the young men from this unit. Let me tell you a
little about what these kids (most are in their
early 20s) have been doing here.
These
kids, although they joined the Air Force, live and
fight with Army units. They go into battle with
them and provide a vital link between men on the
ground and the aircraft that provide close air
support. One of them exposed himself to hostile
fire in order to secure a vantage point from which
he could direct aircraft. From there he guided a
fighter to destroy a gun position that had pinned
down U.S. troops.
Another
risked his life to retrieve and administer medical
aid to a Marine. Under fire, he defended his
wounded comrade and called in airevac at the same
time.
Another
called in fire to destroy barriers built by
insurgents. The barriers were slowing down our
troops and holding them in a killing zone. I could
go on, but I think you get the idea. These kids are
smart, articulate, and modest. Had I not been
privileged to help edit their award nominations I
would never have heard these stories because they
do not talk about what they've accomplished.
Their
commander tells me that in garrison, during times
of peace, these kids are a constant handful. They
are forever getting in trouble for things like bar
fights, rappelling down the sides of public
buildings, and stretching the rules beyond all
bounds. He bounced 12 out of the Air Force last
year for their indiscretions. During war though, he
tells me, they are dream airmen. They do what
they're told, when they're told to do it. Somehow,
they are most innocent when they are being most
deadly.
As
I wrote this, a number of rockets exploded not far
from here. We waited what we considered a
reasonable amount of time, and then flew to the
window. On the ground floor the windows are blocked
by sandbags to protect us from shattered glass, but
from the upper stories we have a view. Three palls
of thick black smoke rose from the impact sites. No
word yet on casualties.
My
whole reason for staying here in Baghdad so long
has been to get to Ramadi. My flight there was
supposed to leave today. It appears now that there
has been a mix-up. No one seems to know for sure
how it happened, but apparently someone forgot to
schedule a return trip for me. Thinking that, since
I had no return trip and would be stuck there for a
couple days, I guess someone cancelled my flight
out there for me. Nice of them. I'm waiting for a
phone call now to see how this will be resolved.
I'm concerned that I will have very little to show
for all the time I've spent here. I've kept my
commander abreast of my situation and he seems to
understand, but I hate to have wasted time,
especially when others are carrying my work load
while I'm here.
They've
been trying to figure out how to work the
heater/air conditioner devices in the office here.
No matter what they do, they don't seem to be able
to get heat out of these things. They looked at
them again today and discovered that both the ones
in this office, far from putting out heat - are
clogged with ice. A brief but intense snowball
battle ensued. Now the units are turned off and
we're trying to figure out how to keep puddles from
forming on the floor when the ice melts.
Steven
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